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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881693">The Nature Of Snow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chunni/pseuds/chunni'>chunni</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5 + 1, 5 Things, Angst, Christmas, Denial of Feelings, Excessive Drinking, Fluff, Historical Hetalia, Kissing, M/M, Prussia is East Germany, Slurs, Swearing, War, blink and you miss it GerIta, well 4 + 1 but I couldn't think of a 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:20:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881693</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chunni/pseuds/chunni</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Four Christmas Days Prussia and Russia spent with each other that didn't feel like Christmas and one that did.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Prussia/Russia (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Nature Of Snow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Oh boy, I don't think I've ever as much research for a fanfic as I've done for this one (and it's just a OS at that D:). However, I had a lot of fun writing this, Russia x Prussia remains my favourite Prussia pairing (though, I have to admit he really is my shipping bycicle in this fandom, he and England). </p><p>I would've finished this sooner but I got a new mini-job which keeps me occupied :')<br/>[To be honest, the first part wouldn't have worked with the correct historical dates because there was just no time to travel from Berlin to Russia in two or so days in the 18th century, so just pretend Prussia is able to teleport for that one :P]</p><p>If you want to know more about the historical events mentioned, I'm going to put links in the end notes and you can read about them for yourselves. </p><p>[As always: I'm not a native English speaker, so please feel free to correct the mistakes or weird-sounding sentenced I've surely made.]</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Nature Of Snow</strong>
</p><p>~</p><p>
  <strong>1</strong>
</p><p>~</p><p>
  <em>January 7<sup>th</sup>, 1762, Ropsha, Russian Empire</em>
</p><p>~</p><p>The first time they spent Christmas with each other, they were enemies pretending to be allies.</p><p>~</p><p>The sky was cloudless, not quite grey and yet as colourless as fog, a promise of frost and a night even colder than the one before. The palace of Ropsha was a mountain of granite and marble before Prussia, all smooth walls and simple shapes and hard edges. It was impressive but boring.</p><p>The last days had been a blur. One day he was fighting a lost battle, enemies to all sides, blood running hot in his veins, defeat creeping closer like a lioness you could hear growling in the distance. The next day there was a death, there was a message, and there was hope. What had looked like a blizzard seemed to be a breeze instead. Still, it felt wrong to be here.  </p><p>Empress Elisabeth of Russia had died, the war had paused like a hunting eagle stopping mid-air, sudden and eerily unreal, and German-born Peter, successor of the throne, had invited him to spend the Christmas dinner with him and his family. Prussia tried not to grimace. How could he say no? </p><p>Frankly, he had said no to Old Fritz, a few no’s in quick succession and rising volume. Russia was their enemy, the troops marching towards Berlin had been sign enough of that. Prussia didn’t want him for an ally.</p><p>He had found piece with dying a warrior’s death and now he wasn’t on the battlefield anymore but in what should be the enemy’s realm, coming in piece. Still, he knew he had to think of his people. He knew Fritz was right and he couldn’t disappoint him. This turn of events was a miracle. It was the best shot they had at winning the war after all, as much as he wanted to complain about it. </p><p>He didn’t like the cold, he didn’t like playing nice, and, most notably, he didn’t like Russia. After what had been a very grim Christmas, barely celebrated except from a short prayer and a few lit candles, he didn’t want this to taint what should be a time of love and felicity. It wasn’t even a real Christmas dinner. It was January for god’s sake! Why should he celebrate a date only Russia found important?</p><p>However, he did like Fritz and his people and the prospect of showing the world their kingdom was a force to be reckoned with, and that was why he was here, putting on the best smile he could muster. Still, when Prussia was led into the palace, he couldn’t supress a shiver. Why, oh why did it have to be Russia?  </p><p>The collar of his coat was a chain around his neck, suffocating him, and he tried to loosen it as discretely as possible. There was a weight that didn’t want to leave him, a restlessness, rushes of energy useful in a fight but annoying when you needed to stay calm and relaxed. There was no sword in his hand, he needed to remind himself, and there were no swords awaiting him.</p><p>There were numerous candles and a large chandelier illuminating the dining hall, the table in its centre, and the people placed at it. Prussia only recognised Russia, his gaze drawn to him as if a rope around his neck were pulling his head towards him.</p><p>He regretted looking at him when Russia’s head rose, waves of blond hair falling behind his ears, almost as if he had felt Prussia’s gaze. Their eyes met and his lips moved almost unnoticeably, curling into a soft downward curve. His brows rose, the sharp look in the dark pool of his eyes daring Prussia to draw his weapon and attack. Prussia gulped down.</p><p><em>Trust me, I’d rather not be here</em>, he thought. Though, his attention was soon caught by the Emperor approaching him. </p><p>Peter III wasn’t an attractive man, his face pale and sickly looking, and he had neither the bright mind nor the military skills of Prussia’s own great leader, that much was certain at first glance. Prussia didn’t like him. Lucky for him, though, Peter didn’t share the feeling. </p><p>Prussia had heard Peter was fond of Fritz and his kingdom but it seemed that had been an understatement. He rose as soon as Prussia entered the room and greeted him with enthusiasm and a sparkle in his eyes that would have been rather fitting for a knight courting a lady. He was talking to him in German with the ease that came with being a native speaker and he gave orders to the servants surrounding them to only address Prussia in German as well. Later Prussia would wonder if that man spoke as much as a sliver Russian.</p><p>“So honoured to meet you,” Peter said. The words <em>admiration </em>and <em>skill</em> and <em>friendship</em> fell in between a rush of praises and compliments, some of which were repeated two or three times during the evening, while Prussia smiled and nodded and tried not to show how uncomfortable he was. He already knew their army was the best in the world, he didn’t need an inexperienced bootlicker to tell him so. Even worse, the man didn’t seem to be aware of the icy glares his wife, a thin-lipped woman with dark, braided hair, shot at him, and sometimes at Prussia.</p><p>Her name was Catherine and she had belonged to his kingdom once. However, while her husband was gushing about his country, she seemed to be distancing herself from it as much as possible, as if out of spite. The couple was sitting next to each other but they were further away from each other as the stars from the earth. She didn’t try to talk to him. Prussia wasn’t sure if it was because she disliked him or because her husband rarely stopped bombarding him with questions about military, the war, and the state of central Europe.</p><p>“Tsar of Russia is such an uncomfortable position,” Peter said once, shaking his head. “It’s cold, the language is ugly and so difficult… I’d rather be a general in your army, believe me. That would be an honourable position.”</p><p>Prussia had to bite his tongue not to say something along the lines of <em>Well, we wouldn’t want someone like you ruining our wars for us.</em></p><p>He had the honour of being placed right next to the royal couple, though that also meant sitting opposite of Russia. There was no way he could escape his eyes. Even if Prussia was looking at the Emperor, Russia was still in the corner of his eye, a shadow he couldn’t get rid of, and it became increasingly and painfully obvious how much Peter was ignoring him in favour of Prussia.</p><p>It was like watching a discarded toy catch dust in the corner of the room. While it had filled him with some kind of satisfaction at first, he was soon hoping to get swallowed by the chair to avoid those dark gazes that felt like a burning match to the dry wood of his body. Russia looked at him as if he wanted to kill him with his bare hands. He only turned away every now and then to answer Catherine’s inquiries, whispered in accentuated Russian that Prussia couldn’t understand, the two of them like spies conspiring to commit a crime. He felt like Daniel of the bible, being thrown into the lion’s den. It wasn’t a good thought.</p><p>Prussia was relieved when the servants began to serve the food. He wouldn’t have to say empty phrases that made him feel like a traitor, he would be able to hide behind the veil of scraping knifes and full plates, and it was a sign that time hadn’t stopped even if he felt like the contrary was true. This dinner couldn’t go on forever and soon he would be on his way home again.</p><p>He would have liked to say the food was horrible, but, although he wasn’t familiar with most of the dishes, it seemed as if the cooks and kitchen-maids had put a lot of effort into it. There were different sorts of fish and a large variety of pies filled with mushrooms, vegetables, and meat. The Russians seemed to like their pickled everything, maybe because of the cold and the harsh winters. There were pickled apples, pickled mushrooms, pickled sauerkraut, and pickled gherkins, and those were only the ones Prussia recognised.</p><p>A servant gave him a hot jar of an alcoholic beverage which had a taste of honey and cinnamon and made him smile earnestly for once. He tried to ask for the name but didn’t understand it well enough to remember and didn’t want to ask twice and, god forbid, appear as if he liked this dinner, especially with Russia’s eyes following his every move.</p><p>As far as Prussia was concerned, everything about Russia and his country was horrible and if asked, he wouldn’t say otherwise, thank you very much. The hours trickled by like lukewarm candlewax, that was to say, the evening seemed to last an eternity. Noting that they still hadn’t gotten dessert, Prussia got up and feigned dizziness, asking to go for a short walk.</p><p>“Of course, my dear friend!” Peter exclaimed, though disappointment mingled with the booze-induced slur of his voice. He tilted his head to look at Russia and it was the first time he had as much as glimpsed at him. The movement came as a surprise. Prussia had almost believed Russia was invisible to him. “You! You can accompany him, right? Show him around, make him feel at home.”</p><p>He said a few words which probably were supposed to be Russian, the syllables shaking and drawn out. At first Prussia thought Russia hadn’t understood him, the man a statue, his eyes narrowed, the line of his jaw tense and unmoving. It was only when a smile twisted the features of his face, a smile like the last note of a dying violin string, that Prussia realised he had understood him very well. It could only be the alcohol that made Peter mistake this smile for something happy and friendly.</p><p>Russia rose. Prussia wanted to take his words back and cursed himself because he knew he had to go through with this now. He followed him with slow steps, his feet dragging across the polished marble floor as if they wanted to hold him back. His stomach made a flip when they stepped out of the room and the doors closed behind them, shutting out voices and light except from the flickering flames from the candlesticks framing the hallways to the sides.</p><p>Russia stayed silent while they kept distancing themselves from the dining room and soon there was freezing air making Prussia’s eyes burn, the wind howling around them. The coldness was intense enough to taste. A tingling numbness began to take over his body.</p><p>The sky had lost whatever colour it had clung to and presented itself with the darkness of the bottom of a well, white specks of stars scattered across it. It was a stunning sight, nevertheless, as they seemed more prominent, more striking than Prussia remembered, almost as if they were close enough to touch. The moon was almost full, a shimmering, white sail in the sea of the sky. It was bright enough to illuminate Russia’s back, the loose parts of his coat and scarf gently swaying in the wind.</p><p>Prussia took a deep breath to gather himself and ran down the stairs after him. “I know you don’t want to talk to me and I certainly don’t want to spend more time with you than necessary either, so please spare us both this charade.”</p><p>Russia stopped. A small, ugly laugh left his mouth and it made Prussia tense up, the last steps needed to catch up as hesitant as a wolf cub’s.</p><p>“You’re lucky. What makes you so lucky, Prussia?” Russia complained in a dark yet oddly whiny voice, almost like a child that got sent to bed without dinner. “You’re stupid and arrogant and selfish and careless and somehow it works out. What do you have that I don’t? What did I do wrong? We should be leading this conversation in Berlin with you kneeling before me, battered and bruised, offering your lands for me to take…. you shouldn’t be here.”</p><p>Prussia crossed his arms, suppressing a shudder. He knew Russia wasn’t wrong. Still, he couldn’t admit that. Instead, he leaned forward and gave him a lopsided grin.</p><p>“Did you consider I’m just that much better than you? Your new Emperor seems to know the truth.”</p><p>Russia’s hands clenched into fists and he shook his head almost unnoticeably. His smile was strange and knowing. “You should learn to shut your mouth. Your luck might run out after all.”</p><p>Prussia snorted but the sound got lost in the roaring of the wind. When he lifted a hand to rub his itching cheeks, he noticed they were wet. It had begun to snow.</p><p>“Old Fritz is on my side. We’re unstoppable, you see.”</p><p>Russia looked at him for a long time. The night hid half of his expression and the other half was unreadable. Still, his gaze was like a blow against the head, intense enough to make Prussia stiffen, his jaw clenched. He wasn’t able to avert his eyes.</p><p>“You can’t always win. The higher you rise, the harder you fall… and I promise you, I’ll be there when it happens.”</p><p>~</p><p>The tide turned. Peter negotiated peace with Prussia and they won the war with the help of his troops, much to Austria’s chagrin. The Emperor himself, however, turned up dead only six months later.</p><p>~</p><p>
  <strong>2</strong>
</p><p>~</p><p>
  <em>December 24th, 1815, Berlin, Kingdom of Prussia</em>
</p><p>~</p><p>The second time they spent Christmas with each other, they got drunk.</p><p>~</p><p>Charlottenburg Palace was large and lavish and it was easy to get lost in its numerous rooms and the surrounding garden. You could feel like a dwarf wandering through abandoned structures made by giants or a ghost haunting history’s memory, even more so when you were alone in those massive halls. It was quiet and Prussia had always hated the silence, especially on Christmas Eve.</p><p>They had set up and decorated a Christmas tree but that had been rather for symbolic purposes than with the intent of actually celebrating. The flames in the fireplace were crackling, orange light flooding the carpet, but it was still cold. There couldn’t be warmth when the absence of life extinguished it like a bucket of water fire whenever it tried to slip into the room.</p><p>Prussia stared at glimmering balls hanging from the tree and saw his own dull eyes reflected back at him. Yes, he could have gone to the Kronprinzenpalais where the royal family was celebrating Christmas but he couldn’t help but feel as if that would have been an even sadder event. Frederik William had never been the same after the death of his wife Louise five years ago and Prussia remembered all too well the absent gazes and silent tears of last year. No, that hadn’t been an option.</p><p>It was a shame. It should be a happy Christmas. It had been a long time since he had last been able to relax and breathe without a weight pressing against his chest. The treaty of Paris had finally put an end to France’s despicable Napoleon and years of loss and anger had blossomed into victory and joy, and yet here he was, doomed to spend Christmas on his own. Was there nothing he could do?</p><p>Prussia took another sip from his bottle of<em> Duckstein</em> beer. Who would he even want to spend Christmas with?</p><p>Hungary was in Vienna with Austria and even if they were in Berlin, Prussia wasn’t interested in being the third wheel while they gave each other presents and kisses, no thank you. Spain was far away, probably enjoying a snowless beach and palm trees, and so were all the other countries Prussia could think of. Except…</p><p>He swallowed hard, the frown on his face transforming into a grimace. He laughed shakily. No, he corrected himself. There was another country in Berlin at the moment, staying for a night before continuing his way home. It was understandable. It was a long way from Paris to Moscow.</p><p>Prussia shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling like a boat being thrown around by a storm. Was he really that desperate?</p><p>He cast a glance at the empty room, at the silent tree, and at the cold flames, and downed the remaining beer. Yes, he was.</p><p>~</p><p>As soon as the door opened, Prussia raised the bottles of red wine, the scarlet liquid leaping up and down like waves in between the glass walls. He smiled and it must have been the grin of a madman.</p><p>“Care for a drink? I didn’t know which one you’d prefer and I couldn’t decide, so I just brought them both.”</p><p>Russia didn’t say anything. The buttons of his dark tail coat were open, showing the white shirt beneath it. A burgundy cravat was lying loosely around his neck as if he had been about to undress when the knocking had stopped him. His eyes roamed over Prussia as if he were a stranger from another planet.</p><p>Prussia cleared his throat more loudly than necessary. Fortunately, Russia seemed to take the hint.</p><p>“How strange,” he muttered. “You usually don’t smile in my dreams.”</p><p>Prussia pursed his lips. The idea of hitting Russia with one of the bottles crossed his mind but he discarded it when he remembered how expensive they had been. “This isn’t a dream. Though, I’m certain my shining personality and crazy good looks make it seem like one. Totally understandable. Now, can I get inside? It’s getting cold. You might be used to it but I don’t want to turn into a snowman.”</p><p>Russia stepped aside when Prussia approached the door but the look on his face told him it was more out of reflex than anything else. Nevertheless, a grin was tugging at the corners of his mouth. Russia hadn’t sent him away yet, that was better than what he had expected.</p><p>Prussia knew the house Russia was sleeping in. He had arranged for him to go there when he had heard he would be stopping by, even though he hadn’t intended to actually meet him. They had seen each other more than enough in Vienna, before, during, and after the war with France.</p><p>That was why he was able to go straight to the kitchen to look for two glasses, opening drawers and cupboards with mechanical movements. His stomach was lurching nervously and his neck was tingling, but maybe that was only the fault of the alcohol he had already drunk.</p><p>“Ah…,” Russia murmured just when Prussia placed two wine glasses next to the bottles on the table. “It’s Christmas, isn’t it? According to your calendar at least…”</p><p>Prussia winced but he managed to cover it up with a grin and looked up to Russia. “Dang, I totally haven’t noticed… thanks for reminding me. Merry Christmas, I guess.”</p><p>Russia furrowed his brows. He waited too long before speaking, which made the silence both uncomfortable and awkward. His voice sounded as if something had died inside him. “Merry Christmas…?”</p><p>Prussia rolled his eyes.</p><p>“You should cheer up,” he said, reaching for a corkscrew. “There’s a lot to celebrate. You got Warsaw, I got the Rhineland and Westphalia, France won’t bother us anymore… now, which one?”</p><p>He lifted a brow, raising the bottles once more. The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife and Prussia could hear his pulse rushing through his ears in the silence. Russia stared at him for a little while longer, then he shrugged and pointed at his right hand. Prussia smiled.</p><p>It turned out to be a good idea to bring a second bottle, though Prussia forgot when they opened it.</p><p>The next day he woke up with a raging headache and a bruise on his shin he couldn’t remember getting, only flickers of conversations and images rushing through his memory, whispering voices and loud yells, soft touches, laughter and the clinking of glasses.</p><p>He thought they had talked about Waterloo among other things and some part of him wanted to remember that Russia had said something along the lines of <em>It’s good we’re allies. I wouldn’t have wanted to fight you there. You’re an angel of death on the battlefield.</em> and Prussia might have answered something along the lines of <em>You saved our asses, man! Without you, I would’ve been French by now</em>, but that wasn’t really realistic, was it?</p><p>He couldn’t remember how the hell he had gotten back to the palace and into his bed but, well, some things were bound to be taken to the grave, right?</p><p>~</p><p>
  <strong>3</strong>
</p><p>~</p><p>
  <em>December 24th, 1942, Stalingrad, Soviet Union</em>
</p><p>~</p><p>The third time they spent Christmas with each other, they were enemies.</p><p>~</p><p>Prussia would have laughed if he had had any energy left to do so. It was an odd urge, an unnatural instinct from deep inside him, only called upon in urgent situations such as this to make them more bearable, possible to survive somehow. He wasn’t cold anymore. The coldness had given way to a stifling numbness and the only sign that he was freezing to death were the glimpses of blue fingertips he caught whenever he dared to pull his hands from the cover of his clothes.</p><p><em>Stand and fight</em>, they had told them. <em>There’ll be air convoys to supply you</em>, they had said.</p><p>Prussia had fought enough wars to know they were as good as dead if there wasn’t a miracle, and he knew he couldn’t hope for another fool like Peter III. It was too cold to cry. That was why he snorted angrily, sending a shivering cloud of breath into the air. He himself wouldn’t die, of course, but his fate might be even worse. He would rather die than live through the humiliation he could almost taste already. Defeated by Russia… what an irony. 1918 had been bad enough already, and now this.</p><p>He knew they were surrounded. Trapped. Stalingrad lay in ruins. The food and medical supplies were dwindling already, winter had arrived with icy claws, and the condition of the army was in no way good enough to ride out the storm yet to come, the soldiers tired and hungry and frightened, even if they tried not to show it. There was a shadow in their eyes, a darkness Prussia knew all too well, and even though he tried to keep up the morale, a part of him knew it was a lost fight.</p><p>It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to win this war. It had been so easy at first, almost easy enough to remind him of his glorious past. They were superior, there was no way someone like Russia should be able to defeat them. It felt like a bad dream he couldn’t wake up from and yet it was reality.</p><p>He didn’t know what to do and he hated that feeling. They should have retreated long ago. Now it was too late for that. He was torn between wanting to keep on fighting and showing strength and trying to save what was left of his people by surrendering. He still wasn’t able to decide when a soldier, yellow-faced with mad eyes and hollow cheeks, told him General Paulus wanted to see him.</p><p>It took a lot of effort to rise, his joints cracking like cars without oil, but he forced himself to stand upright, and his steps were as confident and firm as he could make them. The wind was laughing around him.</p><p>Paulus waited until they were out of earshot until he spoke, desperation glimpsing through the cracks of his stern mask.</p><p>“I’ll make it short. You’re going to leave,” he barked.</p><p>Prussia stiffened, narrowing his eyes. “Why? How? Sir, I don’t think-“</p><p>“General Vasilevsky sent a message. They knew you’re here and they’re offering an opportunity for you to leave unharmed and return to Berlin. Only you.”</p><p>Paulus raised his hand at the look in Prussia’s eyes, the shock and outrage that must be visible, continuing to talk just as Prussia opened his mouth to argue.</p><p>“No. You don’t get to make this decision. I know… I know we’re doomed. I can feel the shadows creeping closer… we won’t be able to hold out longer than a month or two. You know it as well.”</p><p>Paulus’s gaze grew absent, the hard lines of his face became even harder, and Prussia was forced to look, was forced to listen.</p><p>“You’re more important than every single man waiting in the trenches. The Reich needs you. If only one man’s supposed to leave this hellhole, I’ll gladly appoint you. I don’t know why they’re doing this but we have to play with the hand we’re dealt.”</p><p>Prussia had to clench his hands to keep himself from yelling, his face twisted into both sneer and deadly grimace.</p><p>“Y-you…” His snort was a strangled, growling sound, more animal than human. “You can’t expect of me to believe those bullshit lies! Sir. I’m no fucking coward! I won’t surrender and I certainly won’t leave you alone and kiss those Russian asses, I’d rather die. Thank you, sir.”</p><p>Paulus’s face darkened. “That wasn’t a question. It’s an order. I’ve already told them you’d do it. We’re dead with or without you. If you don’t go, I’ll kill every one of our remaining soldiers myself, we’re on our way to hell anyhow. That I can promise you. Now go, I’ll ask for you when it’s time.”</p><p>Prussia stared at him, teeth grinding as if he were trying to turn them into dust. He couldn’t leave, he couldn’t. How could Paulus ask that of him? How… how…</p><p>He pulled his lips back to snarl, to say he didn’t care, to argue, to rage, to cry, and froze. He felt ill. He hated Paulus and he hated Vasilevsky and he hated that bastard Russia and, most of all, he hated himself. Because he clenched his teeth and didn’t keep on arguing.</p><p>When Prussia left Stalingrad in the darkness of the night, he had never felt more defeated.</p><p>It was no surprise when Russia was waiting in front of the car that was supposed to bring him away from the battle zone. Still, Prussia felt angry sparks flying through him at the sight of him, made even worse by the fact that he must be the reason for that message, that he must be feeling like a damn saint for allowing him to leave. He wouldn’t have thought twice about shooting him if they hadn’t taken his weapons. Russia examined him briefly.</p><p>“You look terrible,” he said.</p><p>Prussia glared at him. There was so much wrath and hate and frustration roaring inside him, it should have been enough to suffocate him, and yet he was alive. There were a million things he could say but nothing seemed to be enough to express this feeling of utter resentment.</p><p>“Is there nothing you have to say to me? You always had such a quick tongue.”</p><p>Prussia crossed his arms. “I don’t talk to dirty commies.”</p><p>“Hm.” Russia tilted his head, a shadow rushing through his gaze, the silhouette of a bird too far away to recognise. “You know… you’re going to lose this war, Prussia. You and your brother. I wouldn’t set you free otherwise.”</p><p>“You’re fooling yourself if you think you’ve already won this war!” Prussia sneered, baring his teeth, unwilling to show even a sliver of the nervousness spreading through him at those words. “And you’re even more stupid than I thought you were if you think you can let me go without repercussions. I’ll fight you until the end and I’m going to win, we’re going to win, just you wait.”</p><p>Seething with anger, panting, Prussia had to ball fists to calm himself down, gaze directed at the bare, dry earth beneath his boots. His eyes were burning, if of coldness or something else, he couldn’t say. To think that just a year ago they had tried to get him on their side!</p><p>Prussia grimaced, his lips quivering with unsaid words. <em>You shouldn’t have refused</em>, he thought.<em> Why did you have to refuse, Russia? </em></p><p>“It seems your luck is running out after all,” Russia said. Prussia pretended he hadn’t heard him.</p><p>It was only after a few hours of driving through empty tundra that he found the newspaper on the car’s floor and did the math. He laughed until his throat hurt, until there were tears waiting to be spilled and a coldness impossible to shake off inside him.</p><p>What a sad, what a horribly ugly Christmas.</p><p>~</p><p>
  <strong>4</strong>
</p><p>~</p><p>
  <em>December 24th, 1961, East Berlin, GDR</em>
</p><p>~</p><p>The fourth time they spent Christmas with each other, Prussia shouldn’t have existed anymore.</p><p>~</p><p>It had taken a long time for the war’s wound to begin to heal and even nowadays it was still there, a soft throbbing like a headache you couldn’t get rid of, an ache in his bones that was there to remind him, to warn him. Still, time had grabbed him with iron claws and had refused to let him fade and someday Prussia had realised he might as well start to live again. Living meant talking to other people, to his brother, living meant eating and drinking and trying to do the things he had enjoyed once.</p><p>When he had first mentioned he would be going to West’s for Christmas, Russia had looked at him as if he were possessed by a demon. His expression had darkened until Prussia had felt like a criminal waiting for the judge to declare him guilty. “There’s no need to celebrate the fictional idea of a ghost when there’re so many real and much more honourable men worth celebrating. You should be old enough not to believe in children’s stories anymore, comrade.”</p><p>He had sworn to himself to never mention Christmas in front of Russia again. Though, he hadn’t stopped celebrating it with Germany, of course. If Russia didn’t want to get presents and eat something delicious with the people he loved, that was his mistake. Considering how little time they got to spend with each other, Prussia needed this day with his brother, a day free of work and frustration and longing sadness, a day on which an hour could last forever, on which there was no East or West, but only them. It wasn’t ideal but it was enough and it was something they could share, something nobody could take from them.</p><p>At least that was what Prussia had thought until the summer of 1961. Until there was more than mere words and orders separating them, until there was something real, something terrifying, an ugly scar running through the city he had once loved.</p><p>Shocked and angry and tired after a discussion with Russia that was a fight really, he had broken his oath.</p><p>“Wait, what about Christmas?!”</p><p>He hadn’t even needed to explain anything because Russia had known. Maybe he had known about it all along.</p><p>“You don’t need Germany,” Russia had said in such an icy, venomous tone, Prussia had lost the very words he had been about to say. “You don’t need Christmas. They’re only tearing you down. You can use the day to think about your behaviour.”</p><p>It had been like a punch in the face and something had snapped inside him and he hadn’t been able to breathe. He had yelled because it had been easier to yell than to speak in a normal voice and risk that it shook.</p><p>“What am I supposed to do?! Drink myself to sleep like every other fucking night of the year?! Work until my fingers are cramping in the vain hope that it’s enough to make me forget?! Pretend there’s reason in your bullshit ideology?! Sorry, can’t do that.”</p><p>The bruise those words had earned him had only begun to fade after a week. Though, every time he had seen the cheek’s purple mark in the mirror, he had grinned. He had found some solace in the knowledge that he was driving Russia to do this, that he was more than a ghost of the past, that he was alive, if only barely.</p><p>Now, on Christmas Eve, Prussia couldn’t quite find a reason to grin anymore. Russia hadn’t changed his mind. The wall was being built, his brother was on the other side of it, and a distance that shouldn’t have been more than a few hundred metres walk was an ocean’s width instead. Ever since waking up and realising what day it was, he had felt ill and his heart heavy. He had considered just staying in bed but that was just asking for unwelcome thoughts to attack him, so he had gotten up eventually.</p><p>A few weeks ago he had considered decorating the living room with the garlands and paper stars that might still be in a cardboard box in the attic. He had lit a candle and it had been too much already, the mere sound of the flickering flame had been enough to make him tense up, to make him freeze while memories were running through his mind, moments once loved and now despised because he knew he wouldn’t be able to relive them. It was like watching a laughing stranger spill a glass of water while you were dying of thirst. He hadn’t lit any more candles and he hadn’t hung up decorations.</p><p>There was only one thing you could do in situations such as this, if you didn’t want to feel the piercing pain of loneliness: getting drunk. There was a colourful variety of bottles of liquor just waiting to be emptied on the table before him and records he knew Russia hated playing in the background. Prussia poured himself a generous glass of Jack Daniel’s, a bottle he had gotten from Germany last year, and raised it into the air.</p><p>“This one’s for you, West!” he said and downed it. The whiskey left a familiar tingling heat in the back of his throat.</p><p>He was about to pour himself another glass when a sound made him pause. A frown spread over his face, though it was only after the knocking appeared for a second time that he realised what it meant.</p><p>Carefully, he stopped the music and went to open the door. His body was itching, restless and on edge, almost reminding him of the times he had been standing on the battlefield and waiting for the slaughter to start. He knew he wouldn’t like what he was about to see and he was right. He almost shut the door right after glimpsing the man behind it.</p><p>“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!” Prussia snarled, fingers clenching around the handle of the door.</p><p>It was almost funny how Russia’s eyes widened, how his body stiffened as soon as Prussia’s eyes focused on him. Almost as if he hadn’t expected him to open the door, as if he had turned up here by accident and didn’t know what to do now. Seeing him standing there, silent and almost perplexed, looking as if he had no idea of the misery he had caused, made another wave of anger run through Prussia.</p><p>“I thought my night couldn’t get any worse but it seems I was mistaken,” he couldn’t help but add. His voice sounded annoyingly stifled, as if he were choking on the words and still had to get them out. “What?! Aren’t there other people’s lives you can ruin? Does it always have to be mine?!”</p><p>Prussia glared at him and yet couldn’t bring himself to close the door. Was it curiosity? Was it exhaustion? Or something else entirely?</p><p>Russia looked at a spot somewhere behind Prussia as if trying to avoid meeting his gaze. In any other situation Prussia might have laughed. Now, though, he could only taste bile. He sighed. The anger faded until it was no more than an afterthought, a shaking syllable then and there, and a part of him wondered how he could still have the energy to fight after what seemed like never-ending losses. His hand slipping away from the door, he rubbed his face and let out a low, tired groan.</p><p>“Why are you here, Russia?”</p><p>It was almost a surprise when Russia spoke after all. Prussia had begun to think he might just be a hallucination after all.</p><p>“I didn’t want you to be alone.”</p><p>“I like being alone!” Prussia hissed. “Believe me, I much prefer it to your company. If it’s you or the dust under my sofa, I choose the dust, thank you very much.”</p><p>Russia exhaled slowly. Prussia wondered why he hadn’t hit him yet. “Can I come in?”</p><p>Prussia pursed his lips. There were memories intruding his thoughts, memories that were supposed to be stored away in a dark corner of his mind but were now breaking through once more, memories of another Christmas Eve he had almost been forced to spend on his own. Back then, he had been the one standing in front of the door, though. It seemed like lightyears ago. Had it really been Russia he had been drinking with?</p><p>“Well… if you really want to come in, there’s nothing I can do to stop you anyway,” Prussia muttered. When he turned around to walk back to the living room, he didn’t need to look back to see if Russia was following him. The door closed with a soft<em> thump</em> and there were steps, slow, almost hesitant, behind him.</p><p>Prussia almost wished the music were still playing. He didn’t like this silence. It was heavy like chains around his neck and it make him realise he wasn’t even close to drunk enough to get through this night.</p><p>He let himself fall on his couch, an ugly brown thing. He reached for his glass but paused with his hand closed around it when he noticed he couldn’t hear steps anymore. A turn of his head confirmed that Russia had stopped walking and was now standing in the centre of the room like a child lost in the mall. His furrowed brows drew deep lines into his forehead.</p><p>“I need a cup…,” he mumbled and lifted his head to look at Prussia. “Where’s your kitchen?”</p><p>It was only now that Prussia noticed the thermos bottle Russia was carrying in his hand. He considered asking about it until he realised he really couldn’t care less. Let him drink whatever he wanted to drink. It didn’t matter to Prussia. He shrugged and pointed to his left.</p><p>“Please do make yourself at home,” he grumbled, voice heavy with sarcasm. Maybe it would have been better if Russia had only been an illusion. It didn’t make Prussia feel better to see him and, most importantly, opening the door had kept him from drinking.</p><p>However, when he looked at the opened bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a wave of nausea flooded him and he froze, glowering at the golden liquid as if it had been responsible for everything that had ever gone wrong in his life.</p><p>Russia returned from the kitchen and sat down beside him. He was holding a steamy cup in his hands, an atrocity with a cartoon boy and a smiling sunflower that should have found its way to the trash a long time ago. When Prussia tilted his head slightly, he could make out dark purple waves leaping to the cup’s rim, reminding him of punch. He was about to glare at the whiskey again when Russia did something that caught him off guard.</p><p>He placed the cup on the table, though not on his side but in front of Prussia, successfully hiding the Jack Daniel’s logo from his gaze. Russia must have read the confusion in his face because he spoke before Prussia had a chance to open his mouth.</p><p>“It’s for you.”</p><p>Prussia glanced at him and raised a brow. <em>Did you hit your head?</em> he thought. He didn’t know what to say, though, so he stayed silent, warily eying the cup. His curiosity got the better of him and he reached out to take a small sip, almost burning his tongue thereby. The liquid was sweet, very sweet. And spicy. Christmas-y even. It reminded him of honey. Honey and… another room, another time. Long ago. A life time ago. Multiple life times ago even.</p><p>He almost spat out what was left of the drink in his mouth.</p><p>“I thought you liked sbiten,” Russia said. “You looked as if you did.”</p><p>Sbiten. So that was how it was called. Prussia had to withstand the urge to laugh but fortunately it left him as soon as it had appeared, only leaving a grim smile in his face.</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry… I do.” He snorted, the sound of it too sad, only the shadow of a broken instrument. He didn’t feel like getting drunk anymore. He didn’t feel like doing anything anymore. He rubbed the spot just between his brows and let out a long, low sigh. “I’m just… well, surprised. I had hoped you wouldn’t notice. I was so sure as well.”</p><p>He chuckled and it was a bit like crying. Something made his eyes sting. “Funny, huh? I was so sure about a lot of things and it turned out I was wrong about every single one of them…”</p><p>He closed his eyes and pressed himself against the couch as if trying to melt into the cushions. He was there, though, alive and real, and he had to live with himself and with the mistakes he had made and with the things he couldn’t have changed anyway. Still…</p><p>“I was wrong about you too…,” Russia murmured, almost too quiet to understand. He didn’t say what he had been wrong about, though, and Prussia couldn’t bring himself to ask. Instead, he took another sip from the cup of sbiten and got lost in the maelstrom of his mind. This time he didn’t mind the quiet that much.</p><p>~</p><p>
  <strong>1</strong>
</p><p>~</p><p>
  <em>December 24th, 1999, Berlin, Germany</em>
</p><p>~</p><p>The fifth time they spent Christmas with each other, it was planned that way.</p><p>~</p><p>It was Prussia who proposed throwing a Christmas party. After so many Christmases, you had to shake things up to make them interesting. Even though many of the other nations didn’t celebrate Christmas or celebrated it in a different way, it was a nice way to see each other again. Germany hadn’t been thrilled but it only took a few days of constant persuading while doing the dishes and vacuuming and cleaning the bathroom to make him warm up to the idea. After all, what better way was there to end the old millennium than to surround yourself with your friends and family?</p><p>Prussia thought it was one the best ideas he had had in a while. The last years hadn’t been easy. Forty years of divide couldn’t be erased in the blink of an eye but they were working together to make the best of it. He thought they were doing a good job, all things considered. Their economy was flourishing, the people were content. There was hope in the air, palpable like the warmth of the arriving spring. His smiles weren’t forced or grim or small anymore. He was smiling more often than not and they were real smiles.</p><p>When it came to sending out invitations, some choices were obvious. The countries of the EU; France, Spain, Italy, Belgium, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Denmark, Ireland, England, Greece, Portugal, Finland, Sweden, and Austria. Hungary, of course. Iceland and Norway to complete the Nordics. Swiss and Liechtenstein because it was expected. America because he would have come uninvited anyway. Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia because Prussia had taken a liking to them during the time of the Cold War. Poland because of nostalgia. And, well…</p><p>Prussia waited until the end of the conference before talking to him. Most of the other countries were already rushing to the doors and Prussia would have been the same usually. Not that day, though. That day he went to the other end of the table where a certain other country was tucking away an impressive number of colourful markers he hadn’t even used considering the blankness of his notebook.</p><p>“Hey,” Prussia uttered, swallowing hard. His grin was shaking more than it should. When Russia looked up at him, there was a sad expression in his eyes, distant, yes, but noticeable enough. There always seemed to be sadness in his gaze nowadays. The pink marker he had been holding met the bottom of his bag with a soft noise.</p><p>“I’ve heard you’re back to celebrating Christmas,” Prussia said when he realised Russia didn’t want to break the silence. “Good for you.”</p><p>Russia knitted his brows slightly, then shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter to me…”</p><p>“Well, it should!” Prussia crossed his arms, trying to ignore the way his neck was itching. “You see, I was thinking… the Christmas days I’ve spent with you in the past were miserable affairs more than anything, so… I thought we should change that. I’m, well, Germany and I are throwing a Christmas party this year. You should come.”</p><p>Russia stared at him with such an intensity in his gaze that Prussia felt his cheeks tingling with heat. Somehow he felt as if he had made a much less innocent offer.</p><p>“…I’ll think about it,” Russia muttered after what felt like an eternity. He got up and practically fled the room only mere seconds later. Prussia chuckled nervously, gazing at the ceiling before letting his head fall down with a sound that was more groan than sigh. He really was a madman sometimes.</p><p>~</p><p>When the 24<sup>th</sup> arrived, Prussia was convinced Russia wouldn’t come.</p><p>He had been met with stoic silence whenever he had seen him at a conference. There hadn’t been a call, a note, or anything else confirming he would or wouldn’t be there. It wasn’t a good feeling to be ignored but the self-doubt and denial had gradually transformed into anger and then indifference. He could have fun without Russia. He actually had had way more fun without him in the past. Inviting him had been a dumb idea in the first place, it wasn’t like he had wanted him to come anyway. It had been… an offer of peace, really. If Russia didn’t want to take it, that was his fault.</p><p>With more and more of his friends arriving and his blood alcohol level rising, Prussia all but forgot they should have had another guest. He was enjoying himself. The bad Christmas songs humming in the background were fortunately drowned out by laughter and excited voices more often than not and there was a splendidly decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the room with a harp-playing angel on top of it. Even Germany had stopped glancing anxiously at the glass cabinet with the fine china and had disappeared with a Christmas-hat-wearing Italy into the garden.</p><p>It was close before midnight when Prussia had to go outside to replace the batteries of the Christmas lights at the front door and met a ghost. Well, at least he thought it was a ghost when he noticed the shadow in the corner of his eye. He let out a very manly scream, followed by a string of curses, turned around, and froze.</p><p>“Oh.” Prussia found himself grinning despite himself. “You’ve decided to come after all.”</p><p>“Hm.” Russia tilted his head, his chin covered by a purple scarf. The Christmas lights trembling in the wind let the shadows of his face melt away. “You’re right… and also wrong. I didn’t come for a party. I don’t think I’d be particularly welcome…”</p><p>He let out a soft sigh, lowering his gaze, and Prussia felt something inside his chest clench. A few moments passed in which only the cold wind was whispering around them. Then Russia straightened his back. “Still, you’ve invited me, so I feel like a present is due.”</p><p>There was a basket under his arm. A big red bow was fastened on top of it and golden ribbons were slung around it, almost hiding what was lying inside. Squinting, Prussia recognised the dark glass of two bottles of wine.</p><p>“I didn’t know which one you’d prefer… so I brought them both.”</p><p>It was odd how the earth seemed to waver beneath his feet, how there was a tingling sensation uncurling in his chest and a smile on his lips. He felt a bit dizzy when he reached out to take the basket, a sensation like standing in direct, hot sunlight, pleasant at first but quickly becoming overwhelming.</p><p>“Uh, thank you.” He took a shaky breath, shifting from one foot to the other, then pursing his lips. “I don’t agree with your words, though. I know at least one person who’d be really happy if you stayed.”</p><p>Russia frowned. “You didn’t invite Belarus, did you?”</p><p>He was dead-serious and Prussia, stunned, almost lost his grip on the basket.</p><p>“Of course not, you idiot!” He rolled his eyes, suppressing the urge to laugh or groan. Both seemed fitting. “It’s me. I want you to stay, okay? I wouldn’t have invited you if I hadn’t wanted to celebrate Christmas with you.”</p><p>Their eyes crossed and somehow there was no wind anymore, there was no cold, no Christmas party in full swing, no world except from them and the sound of his racing heartbeat in his ears. It wasn’t fully there yet, only a small curve upwards, no more than a reflex really, but the hint of a smile was dancing over Russia’s lips.</p><p>“I don’t understand you, Prussia,” he murmured, brows still drawn together. “Even when I thought I’d understand you, I had to realise I was wrong. Sometimes you hate me, sometimes you don’t… what am I to you? Friend or foe? Your behaviour doesn’t make sense.”</p><p>A spark of irritation ran through Prussia but he realised it wasn’t directed at Russia but at himself. Because he knew Russia was right. He knew his behaviour was irrational. He knew he liked to lash out and throw hard truths and angry lies around. He knew nothing in his life had ever made sense, not even his existence. Some of it he couldn’t change. Changing, evolving, was part of a countries’ existence, it was only natural. However, what Russia was talking about… that was different from him being a country. They were countries but they were also people, people with their own thoughts and feelings and opinions.</p><p>Prussia stiffened, lowering his gaze. “I… I don’t hate you… I never hated you. Maybe in the beginning but that soon changed when we became allies. I admired you. Well, I still do. I… uh, it wasn’t that I didn’t like you… I just didn’t like that I liked you. I didn’t want to like you, you see. I, uh, I guess what I’m trying to say is I do like you. Does that make sense?”</p><p>He took a deep breath and looked up, meeting a gaze full of emotions and yet too clouded to read. Or maybe it was his own mind running wild that kept him from being able to read it but Russia’s silence also didn’t help. Had he said too much? What was Russia thinking? What if…</p><p>“Ah, fuck it,” Prussia groaned under his breath, unwilling to let this tension go on, unwilling to drown in anxiety. He carefully placed the basket on the ground and shifted his weight to his tiptoes to lean forward. He grabbed the collar of Russia’s coat, pulled him closer, and let their lips melt together. At first the adrenaline was too much for him to even realise what was happening, then there were tingling waves running through his body and goosebumps spreading all over his skin.</p><p>Time stopped. Russia’s lips curled into a soft smile and Prussia could feel a weight leaving his chest when he returned the pressure, gently, as if fearing there was anything he could break. It was a nice, a good kiss. A kiss long in waiting, Prussia thought.</p><p>Somewhere inside the house the clock struck midnight and a new day began.</p><p>~</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1762<br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Years%27_War">Seven Years War</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Moscow#Wehrmacht_advance_towards_Moscow_(1_November_%E2%80%93_5_December)">Battle of Moscow</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_III_of_Russia">Peter III</a><br/>[It seems he did say the thing about rather wanting to be a Prussian general :P]<br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederick_the_Great">Old Fritz</a><br/><a href="Miracle_of_the_House_of_Brandenburg">Miracle of the House of Brandenburg</a><br/>1815<br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Paris_(1815)">Treaty of Paris</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quadruple_Alliance_(1815)">Quadruple Alliance</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Waterloo">Battle of Waterloo</a><br/>1942<br/><a href="https://www.britannica.com/event/Battle-of-Stalingrad">Battle of Stalingrad</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/German%E2%80%93Soviet_Axis_talks">German-Soviet Axis talks</a><br/>1961<br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/East_Germany#1949_establishment">East Germany</a><br/><a href="https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sbiten">Sbiten</a><br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
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